Worth the Distraction
by Katta
Summary: After John's death, Lydia has been afraid to let anyone into her life, but at the same time, the loneliness is getting to her. Maybe someone at the London Institute can provide a solution. (This fic includes characters from The Infernal Devices and Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy, but follows show canon.)
1. Chapter 1

There was always a lot of work to be done in Idris, which made it easier – for a while – to push any emotions aside. Lydia threw herself into it as soon as she was healed from her wounds. Working up her strength in the training room took its fair share of the time, of course, and then there were reports from the various Institutes to be read, memos to send back, policy recommendations to be made, research to dig into, diplomatic relations to handle, and eventually, actual demon slaying missions in the outside world.

Victor Aldertree might have been given the New York Institute and the Clave might have deemed her ineffectual but those were only minor setbacks. On a lower level, she was making a name for herself. Her _own_ name, not just the one handed down to her by illustrious ancestors. People said, "Oh, so you're Lydia Branwell? I've heard of you!" and if there was a hint of a smirk on their faces at times (gossip travelled fast in Idris), more often there was respect, even trust.

She was in the middle of a training session with the head of her team, Angelica Trueblood, when Angelica's eight-year-old daughter came running in and broke the news: "Valentine's been caught!"

Lydia landed the final punch and the paused. "Really?"

"Yeah. But he's killed a lot of people. Like, a _lot_. Shadowhunters and Downworlders both."

That was no childish exaggeration, she found when the rumours turned into actual reports. The exact number of dead, while still uncertain, was somewhere close to 50, and surviving Downworlders were unsurprisingly in uproar, especially since it seemed that Jace had accidentally done the actual activation of the soul sword.

She hadn't really been in touch with New York since she left, but the situation called for it, and so she sent a message to Alec: "I heard the news. Congratulations on capturing Valentine. How tragic that it had to come at such a cost. Are you okay?"

He wrote back: "I'm fine. Lost some good people. Thank the Angel that Magnus got out in time."

As she stared at his words, a raging fire bubbled in her body. Her hands shook over the message, and she snatched them away, sitting down on them to keep them still.

Never, during her ill-advised engagement with Alec, had she felt a moment of jealousy over Magnus Bane, nor the kind of emotional connection to Alec that would motivate such feelings. They had been business partners, perhaps something bordering on friends, but that was all. Magnus was a good man and she was _happy_ for him and Alec. Truly. So why now, when the whole thing was over and done with….?

Of course she didn't wish that Magnus had died. That would be horrid.

But why would he get a miraculous last-minute escape, when John...

Why would the Angel guard _them_ , and not _him_?

She pushed away from her desk and stood up, knowing that if she replied right away, she'd say something she'd regret.

* * *

When Jace was given the Institute, and promptly handed it over to Alec, there was a lot of talk in Idris and people kept throwing Lydia long glances, half sympathetic and half sensationalistic, as if they expected her to blow her top. One brave soul even dared to ask her opinion on the whole matter.

"Good for Alec," she said and she meant it. She could begrudge him a living boyfriend, but not an Institute. Those were both easier to come by, and less devastating to lose. And there was no doubt in her heart that he'd be up to the task.

Still, it was a relief when Angelica sent her to London to sort out a list of complaints from the head of the Institute, Evelyn Highsmith. Those sort of petty squabbles was a way to keep her mind occupied.

Compared to New York and even Alicante, the London crew were traditionalists, at least in terms of interior design. Computer screens were hidden behind oak panels, with antique chairs in front of them, and the decorated lamps hanging under the roof beams let out a warm, yellowish light. Maybe that was what you got, when the head of the place was pushing eighty.

It was quaint in its own way, though after half an hour in Ms. Highsmith's office listening to her woes, Lydia was starting to long for modern ergonomics.

"I understand that you are short-handed at the moment," Lydia said when there was a pause for her to speak. "But that's a problem worldwide. The Shadowhunters are depleted and we've had to send several of our best to New York to deal with the Valentine situation..."

"Oh, New York," Ms. Highsmith scoffed. "They brought it upon themselves, with their leniency towards the Downworld. I've heard what goes on there, filth and perversion spreading into our ranks."

Lydia had bitten her tongue a lot lately, but found that unless she unleashed it this instant, she'd end up bashing the old lady's head in with the nearest blunt object. "New York has a fine and dedicated staff who have made a lot of sacrifices in the battle against Valentine. As, need I remind you, have their Downworlder associates." She took a deep breath and barged ahead with a new subject before Ms. Highsmith could get a word in. "Now, where your maintenance cost and weapons inventory are concerned, I'll go through it, see what we can do. But I must tell you, this budget seems excessive."

A young woman, or possibly a girl in her late teens, stopped outside the window and peered in. She was pretty in a doll-like way, with blonde curls, round eyes, and a rosebud mouth. Her long and flowing dress looked more like a 19th century chemise, or possibly a nightgown. Altogether, it gave the impression of someone having just stepped out of a Romantic painting. She should have been struggling across a windswept moor with her hands pressed against her chest, or sitting in a boat with her gaze mournfully on the horizon like the Lady of Shalott.

Lydia stared. The London Institute might be old-fashioned, but so far it hadn't extended to its inhabitants.

"What about strategic planning?" Ms. Highsmith asked. "I don't think it's too much to ask for Idris to take a personal interest. After all, this is one of the oldest and most revered Institutes, and if I'm to make do with half the staff size that I'd need, I'd very much like to hear your ideas on how on Earth I'm supposed to accomplish that."

"Yes, of course," Lydia said automatically.

The girl outside gave Ms. Highsmith a long, disdainful glance and formed her hand into a yapping mouth. She rolled her eyes in an exaggerated way and then smirked at Lydia in shared understanding

Lydia bit her lip and closed her eyes for a second to keep the laughter down. When she opened them again, the girl was gone.

"So, do I have your word?" Ms. Highsmith asked.

Pulling herself together, Lydia replied. "I'll bring it up with my superiors. Now, shall we start with the weapons inventory?"

* * *

The business in London took longer than Lydia had expected, though in hindsight she should have seen that Ms. Highsmith would grab at any opportunity to hold onto a Clave representative as long as possible.

Upon her return to Alicante, she heard of Valentine's escape and put in a request that same day for a transfer back to New York. One that was just as promptly refused by Inquisitor Herondale herself.

"We don't need more insurgents in New York at this point," the Inquisitor said.

Lydia clenched her jaw. "I'm not an insurgent."

"Not on your own, perhaps. But that place... those _people_... are a bad influence on you."

'Those people' like her grandson, though Lydia knew better than to voice it out loud. Anyway, she knew Jace wasn't the one implied in that statement. Though the Inquisitor had allowed Alec's promotion, based on his overall field proficiency, there was still that bubbling moral resentment underneath, if somewhat more veiled than in the likes of Evelyn Highsmith.

"Bern's had a bit of a problem lately," the Inquisitor said. "I'm sending you over."

Bern did turn out to have an unusually persistent infestation of tatzelwurms. Lydia took the mission without much enthusiasm and brought over some of the Clave's volumes that had information about the creatures.

The staff was noticeably chilly at the intrusion to their ranks, with the exception of the leader of the Institute, a young man named David Baumgartner who greeted her with a firm handshake and a used-car-salesman smile.

"Welcome!" he said. "How's Idris these days? I've only been back for two years but I miss the old place. Things get so isolated around here."

"Idris is fine," she said, slamming her books down on the conference table and pulling up a chair. "Now, what can you tell me about these tatzelwurms?"

Tatzelwurms, as it turned out, were smallish demons, only about the size of a ten-year-old child, with lizard bodies and cat faces.

"You can get them easily enough with a seraph blade," said second in command Florian Siegenthaler, a bearded man in his forties who compensated for his colleague's wide smile by having no expression at all. "But there are too many of them now. You cut one down and there's a dozen where it came from."

"Do we think someone summoned them, or...?" Lydia asked.

He shrugged. "There have always been a few, here and there. Not like this."

"Right. Well, take me out to their lair. I want to see for myself."

A few hours later, she silently cursed this policy of seeing for herself, as she used an iratze to mend her shredded skin, and wished for an equally simple rune to mend her gear. Sewing it up would hardly even be worth the effort.

The claws she had been prepared for, but she hadn't expected the damned things to _jump_.

But at least the excursion had given her what she needed, personal experience to complement what she could read in books, and she hit the research with a bit more insight.

"Can't we just burn the damn place down?" she asked after hours of exasperating dead ends.

"These buildings belong to the Old City," said Baumgartner. "Cultural heritage."

"It's just the cellars," she said. "Surely we can..." But she envisioned fire spreading towards the nearby buildings. Destroying cultural heritage sites was inevitable in some cases, but doing so deliberately because some tiny demons didn't know when to stop multiplying was another matter altogether. "No, you're right. Forget it."

She leafed through the reports, trying to work out the timeline: "So a year ago, there were lots, but no more than you guys could handle, and you had them down to only a few. Then nothing at all until spring, when you got some scattered ones here and there."

"But really ferocious ones," said Siegenthaler, speaking from bitter experience.

"And now there's a boom, coming from... they had babies. Of course. The ferocious ones were mothers, the pups are only now becoming old enough to hunt."

"Makes sense."

"But where were they all winter? Even if the young ones were only born this spring, the old ones must have been hiding somewhere. Or did they just pop back to hell and return now?"

"They could have been hibernating," Baumgartner suggested off-handedly. "According to some of the sources, they do that."

The room fell quiet as they took this in. Hibernating wasn't the same as dead – but a hibernating creature was a hell of a lot easier to kill. Especially if you control the where and when of the hibernation.

"So tell me," Lydia asked, "what's the official policy of _freezing_ a cultural heritage site?"

"They're under three whole blocks," Siegenthaler said. "We don't have anything that could freeze all that."

"We don't, but I'm betting the warlocks do."

"No, no, no," Baumgartner protested. "No Downworlders. And we can't afford warlocks anyway. Do you know what those bastards charge? It's a frivolous expense."

"Not if it can save lives," Lydia said.

"Oh, will Idris pay for it, then?"

"Barbegazi," Siegenthaler said, loud enough to drown them out. "A lot cheaper than warlocks, and more helpful too."

"Is that a word I'm supposed to know?" Lydia asked.

"They're a kind of Seelies, creating ice and snow. And they have a soft spot for mundanes, so I think I can convince them to help out."

"That's still Downworlders," Baumgartner said.

Lydia ignored him, focusing her attentions on Siegenthaler. "You'd rather trust Seelies than warlocks?"

"In this particular case, yes."

"All right," she said. "I'll allow it."

With that, they dispersed the meeting and Siegenthaler went to make his contacts.

Working against the wishes of the head of Institute made for some bumps in the road, but Lydia powered through, figuring a few bruised egos was worth it to solve this problem once and for all.

The barbegazi turned out to be a dour-faced little dwarf with frost in his long beard, and was surprisingly easy to negotiate with. Siegenthaler spoke of the danger to mundanes, appealed to the barbegazi's generosity of spirit, and in the end all it took was the promise of protection for a few snow-covered mountain tops.

With the barbegazi's help, the tatzelwurm lairs were soon frozen, and the Shadowhunters could move through them, sticking seraph blades into dozing bodies to send them back to the hell from whence they had come. If Lydia had any qualms about the sportsmanship of stabbing unconscious creatures, the fangs and claws on even the youngest tatzelwurms quickly dispersed her of that notion.

By the end of the night, she was shivering and tired, even with the application of runes for both heat and wakefulness, but the lairs were finally empty, and the buildings above them started to thaw.

"I can't wait to go to bed," Lydia admitted, rubbing at her eyes.

Baumgartner grinned. "Want some company?"

She pulled herself up to her full length, suddenly wide awake. "Pardon?"

"You and me, a bit of fun. I'll buy you a drink. Or we could go to dinner tomorrow, if you're going to be all proper about it."

"I shall be doing no such thing."

"Oh, come on, don't act all high and mighty." Baumgartner was still grinning, though there was just the slightest edge of malice. "I know your story. Lost the man you loved at twenty-three, threw yourself at the nearest guy who would have you after that. Too bad he turned out to be gay. Ditched at the altar..." He whistled. "Beggars can't be choosers, eh?"

His hand came up to touch her cheek, and she wrenched it away, with enough force that she could hear bones crack and Baumgartner let out a surprised whimper before she let go. "Mr. Siegenthaler!" she called, striding ahead. "Please arrange for a portal to Idris at your earliest convenience."

Siegenthaler must have been as tired as she was, but didn't say a word in reproach as he got them back to the Institute and ordered up the portal. Nor did he act in any way surprised at Baumgartner's dark looks at Lydia or the fresh iratze he'd given himself.

Lydia didn't say another word to Baumgartner, or he to her, but she did give Siegenthaler a last parting smile before passing through the portal.

"It's been a pleasure working with you."

"And you," Siegenthaler said. "Thanks for the help. Good luck in Idris."

"Thank you," she said, and stepped through.

The gossip in Idris may be trying, but at least it didn't come with any wandering hands.


	2. Chapter 2

Lydia was still sleeping when the next call came.

"Well, you've been busy, haven't you?" Angelica said. "David Baumgartner just put in an official complaint that you assaulted him.

"David Baumgartner is a lech," Lydia said, leaning her head against the cold metal bed-knob.

"Really? Then fuck him. Are you willing to tell the Inquisitor that?"

"Sure. Any time. Though does it have to be right now?"

"No. But there's another thing. Have you been telling London that you'd sort out their strategic plans?"

"What? No." Slowly, Lydia's groggy mind played back the conversation she'd been having with Ms. Highsmith. "Damn. I think I might have."

"Well, get your ass over there. That Highsmith woman's been chewing my ear off for four days straight."

"Can't someone else do it? I only just got back."

"Why should someone else have to sort out the promises _you_ made? Without authorisation, I might add. This is your business."

"Tomorrow?" Lydia pleaded.

"Not a chance. I'm setting up a portal for two o'clock this afternoon."

That meant a few more hours of sleep, if she kept her outfit and packing simple. "All right," she said, grateful for that much at least.

But even with the extra sleep, a shower, and a change of clothes, she still felt like death warmed over as she returned to London.

"Oh, good, you're here," was Ms. Highsmith's only form of greeting. "Ekwueme, you help her sort this out."

The man standing next to Ms. Highsmith shook Lydia's hand. "Ekwueme Iwochukwu," he said. "Assistant Head of the Institute." He had a slight Nigerian accent, and a winning smile.

"Lydia Branwell," she said, wondering if it was some natural law stating she'd always get along better with the second in command.

The strategic plans weren't in such bad shape, it turned out when the two of them sat down to talk. Ekwueme had come up with a couple of different viable solutions to the personnel shortage, and the discussion mostly became about which way to combine them so as to not completely break the budget.

"It's going to be tight, though," he said.

"It's always been tight," she said. "Worse now, that New York is practically bleeding good Shadowhunters."

"That's to be expected, with Valentine on the loose again."

"I know. But you understand that it leaves the rest of us a bit hampered."

He acknowledged that with a sigh and a nod, and they got back to number-crunching.

A little while later, he said, "Let you in on a secret? I don't mind if you skimp a little here, if it means saving money for the Lagos Institute."

She frowned. "There is no institute in Lagos."

"I know. But we need one. Actually, we need one in Maiduguri, but I know _that's_ not happening. Stay out of mundane business, and all that. Never mind that mundane war means desperate mundanes conjuring demons, and Downworlders taking advantage of the chaos to break the Accords, and..." He took a deep, shaky breath. "Forgive me, I get carried away."

"Don't apologize." She felt out of the loop, and rather ashamed of it. "Have you brought this up with the Clave?"

"Yes. They said no to Maiduguri, suggested Lagos. Which is too far away, but I'll take it. I had funding ready and everything, but then Valentine turned up, and now the whole thing's cancelled. 'Maybe next year', they tell me."

"I'm so sorry." Even knowing that there were probably dozens of Shadowhunters around the world with similar stories didn't make it any better.

He shrugged. "So here I am, accumulating work experience for a woman who thinks 'London is one of the oldest Institutes in the world' is a valid reason why it should be given more money, and who thinks I'm a stupid little darkie boy who doesn't know his job. Don't tell her I said that, by the way."

"Don't worry, I won't. Though I may share my own thoughts on the matter."

Ekwueme smiled at her. "You know, dinners at the Institute are dry affairs. What do you say we play truant, go out to eat? Together?"

Her immediate reaction was to pull her hands away. But that was ridiculous. Ekwueme wasn't David Baumgartner. He was a sweet young man whose company was infinitely preferable to sitting down to dinner with his boss. If they did go out together, she'd probably have a good time.

But she knew what he was asking, and it left a taste of blood in her mouth.

"I can't," she said. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right," he said gently. Too gently – her face must be giving her away.

"I think it's better if we just... keep it professional."

"Of course. I didn't mean to cause you any discomfort."

She forced out a smile and picked up her pen. "Thank you. Now, which of these expenses do you suggest we cut?"

* * *

Dinner at the London Institute _was_ a dry affair, though it was no fault of the cooking, which was excellent, if a bit on the stodgy side. Afterwards, Lydia opted for a walk alone in the rose garden, in an attempt to walk down the feeling of a rock in her stomach.

It was a very well-kept garden. Perhaps the gardener should be put on the list of expenses to cut, but at the same time, Lydia was loathe to let such a work of art go to waste. Even now that the roses were out of bloom, the beauty remained in the cut of the hedges.

The girl in the white chemise stood by one of the benches along the path. Her face held a curious, but not unfriendly, expression – and Lydia realized with a start that she could see the rest of the path _through_ that face.

"Hello," the girl said.

"Hello," Lydia replied automatically. "You're a... um... are you...?"

"I believe 'ghost' is the word you're looking for," the girl filled in. "Yes. I'm Jessamine Lovelace. Or Gray, but I'm told women can take back their maiden names now, if they like. And I do like, rather."

"Lydia Branwell." Was it impolite, staring through a ghost? But then, where was she supposed to look?

The girl came closer, not floating exactly, but with steps that suggested touching the ground was optional. "Are you Charlotte's daughter?"

"Um. My mother's name is Naomi."

"But you're related to Charlotte, aren't you? You look like her. Not the colouring, but the stature, and around the face a little. You don't look anything like Henry, which is fortunate."

"Charlotte Branwell," Lydia said, recalling her family history. "You're talking about Charlotte Branwell. The consul."

"Yes, of course."

"That was... almost a hundred and fifty years ago. She was my great-great-great-great grandmother."

"Has it been that long?" Jessamine shook her head. "Yes, I suppose it must have been. It's so hard to keep track of time. Do you work here?"

"I'm only on a visit from Idris."

"Oh, that's unfortunate." Jessamine was walking slowly around her now, observing her from all angles, which in turn got Lydia a good view of her spectral appearance. "Not many people can see me, I would enjoy the company. Though at least you are spared the over-abundance of the current Head. Isn't she awful? I could tell, last time I saw you, that you thought so too."

"She made some remarks I didn't much like." Now there were phantom fingers plucking at her ponytail. "Do people know that you live here? I mean... haunt here?"

"Of course. What would be the point of hiding it? You know, you've got quite good hair. If only you did more with it. Curled it, perhaps. And those clothes are abysmal."

"I got here in a bit of a hurry," Lydia said coolly. Ghost or not, this girl was overstepping her bounds. Still she couldn't muster up the requisite anger.

"Shadowhunters, always rushing around." Jessamine tilted her head. "You know, it's funny. When I was alive, I couldn't wait to leave this place, and I thought all the Shadowhunters could go hang. Now, I remain to make sure everyone here is safe. As well as I can. Being a ghost has its limitations."

There was something mournful in her eyes that brought a lump to Lydia's throat. "That's a very worthy cause."

"It's the only one I had." Jessamine gazed at her in utmost concentration. "You truly do look like Charlotte. When she was deep in her worries, she would have that exact expression. Henry could always make her smile, though. Do you have a Henry?"

"No," said Lydia, "I don't." And in an attempt to steer the topic away from herself, as well as a genuine desire to know, she asked, "Tell me about them?"

Jessamine smiled. "Well, there's a lot to tell..."

* * *

A full hour later, Lydia returned inside, her head buzzing with information about life with the Branwells in Victorian times. Not all of it flattering; Jessamine had a wicked tongue on her.

The things she had learned even made it into her sleep, as she dreamed of an automaton with John's face leading her into the Silent City, where her father set himself on fire while berating her for letting her emotions get the better of her.

She woke up in the morning sweaty and uncomfortable, and found a blue halterneck dress laid out for her on the armchair in her room. The skirt suit she had placed there the night before was nowhere in sight.

Frowning, she went to the bathroom and then, upon her return, searched the room more thoroughly.

Not only was her skirt suit missing, her entire bag was. The book she'd carried in it was lying on the bedside table next to her phone, and her toiletries were still in the bathroom cabinet, but all of her clothes were gone.

She picked up her phone, weighing it in her hand as she tried to think of who to call. Nobody in Idris could do much about the situation and she abhorred the notion of explaining it to Ms. Highsmith.

In the end she padded barefoot and pyjama-clad out of her room, cursing under her breath with every step.

The hallway was still empty, but she could hear voices coming from downstairs and so continued in that direction. On the landing, she met the wide-eyed gaze of a shortish middle-aged woman she hadn't seen before, but whose lack of runes indicated that she was part of maintenance.

"Hi," Lydia said, toes curling involuntarily against the carpet. "My clothes appear to be missing."

"Oh, no," said the woman, in dismay but not surprise. "Not again! Don't worry, we'll find them for you in no time. Come on, let's see where to start looking."

Lydia followed her back up the hallway. "Thank you. Does this happen often?"

"Unfortunately. We're haunted, you see."

"You mean Jessamine did this?" The sense of betrayal came as a surprise to her.

"Oh, so you've heard of her already?"

"We met. I thought she liked me."

The woman's eyebrows shot up. "She doesn't like anyone. Right hellcat, that one."

She sized up Lydia with her eyes and then proceeded to knock on a bedroom door.

"Wardrobe malady," she explained to the teen girl who opened. "Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary?"

"Not today, Sharon, I don't think." The room's inhabitant gave Lydia a sympathetic smile. "Ghost giving you trouble?"

"Apparently," Lydia said, feeling a little better about her pyjamas now that she knew it was an expected occurrence.

The next door knocked upon was opened by a young Shadowhunter woman about Lydia's height and shape, but with a mass of reddish hair that overwhelmed the narrow face underneath. She was wearing a powder-blue dressing gown, and the first words out of her mouth was, "That bitch has been rummaging through my wardrobe again."

"I take it the blue halterneck dress is yours?" Lydia asked, getting an irrational pang of guilty conscience, as if it were her fault that the dress had ended up in her bedroom.

"Yes. She gave it to you instead?" She scoffed. "Figures."

"Pam, have you seen any other clothes?" Sharon asked. "Ms. Branwell seem to have lost hers."

Lydia had never given her name to Sharon, but she supposed that a Clave envoy was a noted enough guest to be known throughout the institute.

Pam shook her head. "Last time they found them in the attic. Give me a moment and I'll come with."

She closed the door and returned a few minutes later fully dressed and with a flashlight in hand. All three of them proceeded up the stairs to the attic.

As hiding-places went, the attic was ideal. Everything useless and bulky seemed to have been shoved up there, from a 1980s Macintosh with a broken screen, to a stuffed owl missing half of its feathers. There were chests and boxes and cupboards, and Lydia started to wonder if she should just cut her losses and move on.

In the corner, there was an antique dollhouse, covered with dust, but still whole. Where everything else was haphazard and stacked, this had the furniture set up like a museum exhibition, with two adult dolls sitting in the stuffed chairs and a little baby doll in a cradle. Lydia leaned down, fascinated by the attention to detail – and spotted a familiar brown shape.

"Oh, there it is," she said, pulling out her bag, which had been crammed tightly behind the dollhouse. A few miniature items fell over as she got the bag out, and though it really didn't matter, something made her straighten them up again, put everything in its place.

"Don't bother with that," Sharon said. "It's just old rubbish."

Lydia straightened up, embarrassed by her own impulse. "Right. Well. Thank you for your help. I'll go get dressed, then."

Going back down into her room, she gave the contents of her bag a quick glance to make sure it was all there, while Pamela got her halterneck dress back. Once Lydia was alone, she unfolded the dress suit she had meant to wear, now a wrinkled mess that would take some severe ironing to sort out. She opted for a similar one in dark green instead, and styled part of her hair in a braid that she wrapped around her ponytail. A final glance in the bathroom mirror told her that at least the morning's disarray was no longer visible in her appearance.

When she turned back around, Jessamine was sitting on her bed, with her chin leaning on her hand and a critical expression on her face.

"It's better than yesterday," Jessamine said. "But it's still not good. You should have taken the dress."

"Why did you steal my clothes?" Lydia asked, affronted.

"They were terrible clothes. The dress was _much_ better. Why didn't you wear it?"

"It wasn't my dress! It belonged to Pamela!"

Jessamine waved that away. "Gingers shouldn't wear blue. It would have looked much better on you."

"I think your fashion tips are a little out of date," Lydia pointed out.

"Good taste is never out of date. I do like the braid. You could be so pretty. Oh, I wish I was alive, I would take you to the finest tailors in town, make them create the most exquisite dresses for you..."

"People don't use tailors anymore."

"I'd think of something. Will you come back?"

"So you can steal my clothes again?"

"So I could give you a few suggestions."

There was something melancholy in Jessamine's voice, under the layers of frippery.

Perhaps that was what made Lydia's voice gentler than she had intended as she answered, "Yes. I think I will."


	3. Chapter 3

London was only one of the places she returned to over the following weeks. Everywhere was short-staffed, and people were only too keen to dump their problems in the lap of whoever would take it. Which, since she was still unofficially barred from returning to New York, was too often her.

She did find the place rather soothing, during her visits. Working with Ekwueme, having chats with Jessamine – even Evelyn Highsmith wasn't so hard to take, once Lydia had learned when to zone out from her rants and when to bite back.

And then the news broke. Valentine was dead, by his own daughter's hand. The Consul was dead too, and revealed to be a Circle member, which under any other circumstances would have been a disaster – but peace was officially regained and euphoria took over.

There was a celebration in Alicante, with Clary Fairchild as the guest of honour, and this time there was no talk of insurgents who would serve as a bad influence; Lydia could come up to chat and squeeze her hand.

"Congratulations. Well done!"

"Thank you," Clary said, smile wide and happy, with only the slightest hint of nerves at being the center of attention in such unfamiliar surroundings. She had grown up a lot, that girl.

Perhaps they all had, Lydia pondered, as she spotted Alec a little while later. He looked older, somehow. Part of it was the haircut, and she suspected he had bulked out a little, but it was more than that. His stance was more relaxed, happier, like he was finally filling out the contours of his own personality.

Seeing her, he raised his glass in her direction, and then came over, smiling in a way that implied he wasn't entirely sure what to talk to her about, but was willing to try.

"Hi," he said. "How are you doing?"

"Pretty good," she said. "Same as always. You?"

"Well, you know, I..." He floundered a bit, then admitted, with a sheepish smile, "Not the same as always. A lot better, in fact."

"I'm glad," she said, and she was. "How's Magnus?"

"Good." His smile spread. "We're good."

"That's good. I want you to be happy."

"I want you to be happy too." His eyes searched for something in her face, and his expression grew serious. "Listen, I couldn't help but notice that there wasn't anyone... you know, coming for your wedding. And what you said about only loving the work..."

"Alec, I'm fine," she said, uncomfortable with this turn in the conversation. "If this is some attempt at compensation, it's really not necessary. You don't owe me anything. I'm the one who should have known better. I'd been engaged before."

"And I wish you could be again. I mean, not engaged, necessarily..."

"I'm not looking, believe me."

"Just, you should have someone who cares about you." He blinked at his own words. "I mean, I do. We do. But we're _there_ , and you're _here_ , and it's not the same..."

"Angelica!" she called out, spotting her boss in the crowd and desperate for any lifeline to get her out of this. She waved frantically, ready to show that she wasn't all alone in the world – even though, granted, Angelica wasn't exactly what you'd call a friend, though they had always gotten along well. "Have you two met? Angelica Trueblood, Alec Lightwood. Wait, you're cousins or something, aren't you?"

"Second cousin, once removed," Angelica said, shaking Alec's hand. "I actually babysat you and your sister once. You probably don't remember; you were five."

"Great!" Lydia said. "Lots of catching up to do then. If you'll excuse me, I need to fill up my glass. Nice talking to you."

She fled the scene, and actually did fill up her glass, before draining it all again in the coatroom, willing her hands to stop shaking.

She was fine. Her life was _fine_. Just because Alec Lightwood was all aglow with first love, that didn't make it any kind of wonder remedy for everyone. All she wanted was work satisfaction and maybe a hot bath from time to time, and both were well within her reach. The absolute last thing she needed was to care for anyone again, to see their face smashed and their guts ripped out and... this was better. This was so much better.

If only he hadn't looked so damned _happy_.

* * *

On her next trip to London, Lydia joined Ekwueme for a standard patrol. It was a quiet night – all they'd had to deal with so far was a Kappa demon in the Thames, and that was easy enough to kill. She had plenty of time to think, and her thoughts kept going back to the same place.

Perhaps she was being a coward about the whole romance situation. People did say it was important to get back on the horse. In that context, Alec had barely even been a horse, more like a child's rocking horse, not even tall enough to give you any bruises when it inevitably toppled over. Other mourning women fell in love again, properly in love, not just agreeing to a marriage of convenience with a man they knew to be gay.

She wouldn't even have to think of it as love. Just to watch a man, an attractive man, and permit herself to consider that attraction. Think of those dark eyes, and the warm smile, and the lean muscles under smooth, brown skin where his shirt sleeves were rolled up. Even the sprays of ichor and river water on his gear didn't detract from his appearance. Yes, Ekwueme was attractive. And he was kind, and smart, and there was nothing dangerous about asking him to...

"Is anything wrong?" Ekwueme asked, frowning at her.

"No, of course not," she said. "You seem to have everything well in hand here. Um. Do you think we could go to dinner after all? You and I?"

A beat, then the smile slowly spread across his face. "Of course. Tonight?"

"Yes," she said. Tonight was good. She wouldn't have time to reconsider, then.

"Seven o'clock?"

"Yes."

"Turkish okay?"

"Sounds great."

The way he smiled, and continued smiling throughout the afternoon, both warmed Lydia's heart and made her more nervous.

That evening, she picked through the clothes she had brought, half wishing that Jessamine would steal a dress for her again. Everything she owned was so practical, and made her look either like a governess or a CEO. Excellent for work, lousy for dating. In the end, she went with jeans and a plaid top, figuring that the casual look was better. Bright lipstick made her feel at least a little less under-dressed.

Her outfit seemed to be at least somewhat in the right ballpark – Ekwueme was wearing a button down shirt and blazer, but no tie. They walked together to the restaurant, chatting about work at first, then increasingly about themselves.

"The family's all spread out now," Ekwueme said. "I've got a sister in Berlin, another in Rio. My mother returned to Nigeria after father died. She was born a mundane, so that's what she went back to."

"Really?" Lydia asked, fascinated. Deserters happened, of course, but it was rare that you could get anyone to talk openly about it. "So you have no contact at all, now?"

He grinned. "Oh, well, off the record or on?"

"I won't even ask," she promised.

"What about you? Do you have family located somewhere?"

"I'm an only child. Raised in Idris first, then the Vancouver Institute. It was all right. My parents and I butted heads a lot. They're not bad people, but... I guess we were all too strong-willed."

"I can believe that," he said softly. "I've seen you in Evelyn's office."

She smirked. "Right. Well. As soon as I was old enough, I left for the Academy. Things got a little frosty after... well. For the past couple of years."

"That's sad."

"We still talk." She shrugged away his sympathy, well aware of the social implications of a grown child – and an only child at that – losing touch with her parents. "Birthday greetings and such. It's fine."

He stopped, holding her gaze, and for a moment he seemed about to say something, but in the end he only nodded towards the building behind her. "This is the place."

"Excellent," she said. "Let's see what they have."

The restaurant was well chosen. They both ordered the crispy pomegranate glazed lamb breast with yoghurt, and it turned out to be a delicious meal. Seated in a corner, they had some privacy and could even slip into conversations about work without attracting attention.

"I hope you don't mind that I keep my phone on," Ekwueme said. "You know what it's like."

"Mine's on too," Lydia admitted. "Is there any trouble going on? The patrol was quiet enough."

"In a city like this, it's hard to tell. Mundanes kill each other all the time, but occasionally a corpse shows up that's... different. There's been a few lately, spread out, nothing solid enough to pinpoint yet."

"You know I'll step in if I need to," she said.

"Of course. Yes. It may be nothing. It's just, better safe than sorry. Last time, it turned out to be a warlock raising a horde of Rahab demons."

Lydia's glass slipped through her fingers and spilled out water all over the table. She hastily stood up, but then remained frozen in place, watching everything get soaked.

"Are you okay?" Ekwueme asked. "Should I get you some more serviettes? Paper towels?"

His eyes were kind and worried. It was far too easy to picture them ripped out of the skull, skin torn off the dead face.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I can't do this. I'm sorry."

She fled, in her dripping dress, past the mundanes staring at her, and out into the street, running with her heart in her mouth all the way to the Institute.

Only then did she realize that she'd left her purse behind. Not to mention poor Ekwueme, who had done nothing to deserve such treatment.

She hung her clothes up to dry, and then stood in the shower and cried, as she had not cried in years.

* * *

The next morning, after a quiet breakfast, Ekwueme discreetly handed her purse back.

"I'm so sorry," Lydia said. "I shouldn't have left you like that."

"Don't worry about it."

"And with the tab, too. Though you could take some money, to make up for it – how much was the lamb?"

"No!" he said, affronted. "Of course not! I just want to know if you're okay now. You seemed upset, and I don't think it was just the water."

"I'm fine." Her cheeks were heating up under his concerned gaze. "I thought I was ready to date, but it seems I'm not. I put you in an uncomfortable situation, and I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," he said. "I don't know what happened to you, but I know you're not doing this on purpose."

She forced herself to draw a deep breath and let her shoulders fall down. "No. I'm not. I... I would rather go back to the way things were, if you don't mind. If you can. If you don't want to work with me, I understand. We can arrange that."

"Of course I want to work with you," he said. "We've been working rather well together. Haven't we?"

He smiled shyly at her, and she smiled back with quivering lips.

"Yes," she agreed. "We have."

True to his word, Ekwueme did his best to keep the awkwardness of the morning's work to a minimum. Which was, even so, pretty awkward. Lydia was grateful when it was time for a break and she could flee out into the rose garden.

This time, she had to wait alone for quite a while before a pale figure settled down next to her on the bench.

"It seems you have broken young Ekwueme's heart," Jessamine said lightly.

"That wasn't my intention."

Jessamine scoffed. "It's not ever anyone's intention. Actually," she amended, "I suppose sometimes it is. But you don't seem the type. What happened?"

"I got scared," Lydia admitted.

"You don't seem the type for that either."

Lydia didn't reply, and Jessamine said nothing, just waited, a transparent, deceptively beatific shape.

At long last, Lydia said, "I was engaged once, and he died. And I know I should be over it by now, but I'm not. I'm just... not."

"Getting over things isn't as easy as all that," Jessamine said with a tinge of bitterness. "No matter how much people tell you that you should, that it's all in the past and you should let yourself be a Shadowhunter, go out and kill things that will send you into an early grave, and don't be afraid."

"I'm not afraid to die," Lydia said.

"I was." Jessamine leaned back and let her arm drape over the bench. "I was terrified, the whole time, and so angry that they wouldn't just let me be, live my life far away from all danger and mayhem. And then I did die and I didn't have to be afraid anymore. It wasn't as bad as I'd feared. No hellfire. Just... being one step removed from everything and everyone."

"That's how I feel anyway," Lydia said quietly, but not too quietly for Jessamine to hear her.

Jessamine ran her fingers in a whispered caress down Lydia's face. "That's no way to live, for the living."

"It's easier. I can't stand losing anyone else. I'd rather just not care, at all."

"Nobody wants to lose their loved ones." Jessamine's hand was still moving, a tingling presence on Lydia's skin. "Yet most people find it worth the risk. Has there been no one, after your fiancé? No one at all?"

"Actually, I got engaged again a little while ago. It was a matter of convenience. He was kind, and honourable, and completely and utterly gay." The word would mean something different to Jessamine, Lydia realized, and so she corrected herself. "Uh, homosexual? He... cared for men?"

"Oh, I see. How unfortunate."

"No, I knew that going in. It felt safe. I liked him, but I didn't have to love him. If Alec had died, I would have been sad, you understand, but the way you're sad if a distant uncle dies, or a co-worker you talk to sometimes. It would have been bearable."

"So what happened?"

"He left me at the altar. And thank the Angel he did! I would have made that poor boy miserable. Now he's living with a warlock – a male warlock – and seems truly happy."

Jessamine smiled a little, then suggested: "You could just tell Ekwueme all this."

"No. Absolutely not. He'd feel obliged to help me, to change things, and perhaps he'd believe that if he _could_ change things, I'd be able to love him. I'd rather not lead him on like that. We're Shadowhunters. That's never going to change. We're going to have to go out, and kill demons, and every time, it's in the knowledge that we might not come home."

Jessamine didn't argue. She hummed a ditty to herself and seemed deep in thought, until she came up with a thought that had Lydia gaping with the absurdity of it all: "You could romance a mundane."

"Don't be ridiculous," Lydia said, once she found her voice again.

"Mundanes live longer than Shadowhunters. They have safe jobs that don't involve killing anything, and you wouldn't have to worry."

"I'd be de-runed!"

"Oh, and would that be the worst thing in the world? Shadowhunter duty, my foot. There's nothing wrong with running if you know what you're running towards. Granted, the mundane I married never loved me at all, and only pretended to so I would betray my friends, and then his associates had me murdered... but they're not all like that."

"Shit, did he really?" Lydia knew ghosts didn't arise from fulfilled, happy lives, but it was still shocking to hear such a sordid tale being shared so matter-of-factly by a girl of Academy age. She felt a fierce, and pointless, urge to protect her.

"Yes, I'm afraid so." Jessamine sank down with a dejected grimace.

"What a creep."

"That's a good word for it. That's exactly what he was, a creep." She perked up again. "Still, there are many wonderful, lovely mundanes. I'm sure we could find one for you. It wouldn't even have to be for marriage. Just a suitor or two, for a night on the town, have some fun. They wouldn't de-rune you for that."

"Jessamine..."

"Say that you'll think about it. Think properly. You're not dead yet, Lydia Branwell, I won't have you act like it."

"I wouldn't even know where to find a mundane! I don't know any!"

"Well, where do mundanes find other mundanes? There must be a place." Jessamine's eyes were fixed on Lydia, and an impish smile spread over her entire face. "I can see you thinking!"

"I'm not," Lydia said, turning her head away, though she couldn't escape Jessamine's teasing giggle.

* * *

After a few rather aimless searches, Lydia downloaded Tinder and put up a semi-truthful bio under a false name.

At first, she gave each profile she saw a thorough examination before making a decision. Looked at every photo in detail, listened to their chosen music, tried to figure out how well she would click with each person.

She learned some nice new songs, but it left her none the wiser. Most of these men had interests that meant nothing to her, lives so far removed from hers that they might as well be an alien species. And distance was a meaningless term; Idris wasn't an available option for obvious reasons, and she could never have brought a mundane there anywhere.

One man was an army officer, which seemed promising; at least they'd have similar training. She swiped right, only to be met with the kind of language that made David Baumgartner seem like a wonder of restraint.

There were an overwhelming number of matches, yet as she combed through the resulting chat conversations, it became increasingly obvious that few of them were matches at all.

Still, exhausting as the whole thing was, she ended up with enough dates to fill out all her free nights and then some. She still fulfilled her duties, but she stopped volunteering for extra hours, opting instead to go out with her chosen matches.

And they weren't all disasters. Sure, there were drips and pervs and downright bores, but also some men who seemed quite nice. She ate at restaurants from every corner of the world, had drinks in pubs and bars and hotels, went to movies and concerts and at one point a ballet.

The ballet was enjoyable; all the dancers had wonderfully disciplined bodies, and their choreography skills could have been useful for demon fighting. She didn't care much for the man who had taken her there.

But in all honesty, for the most part, the problem was with her, not with them. All the lying was getting to her. Trying to keep up with the names and references of their mundane lives. Claiming that she had been living abroad for the past few years helped with some things, but not all: "How can you _not_ have heard of Sean Connery/the Knicks/Bob Dylan?"

She lied, and she learned, but not quickly enough.

And even when they were kind and likeable, and she managed to dupe them, and they were having a good time, she kept slamming into the same wall.

One guy took her to see _The Babadook_. Whatever reaction he had expected, it probably wasn't that she'd get up in the middle of the movie and go out into the foyer to hyperventilate.

"I'm sorry," he said, putting an arm around her, though he withdrew it again when her back stiffened in automatic response. "I thought you were the kind of tough chick who could handle scary films."

"It wasn't scary," she tried to explain, though she still wasn't breathing right. "It was... it wasn't scary."

He made all the right comforting noises, led her out of there and drove her to the apartment building she claimed as her home, two blocks from the nearest portal. But he didn't contact her again and, in truth, she was grateful.

Then there was Jason Cox. She _liked_ Jason Cox. He was slighter in stature than most Shadowhunters, but had a brisk, no-nonsense attitude that would have fit right in on a demon hunt, and an honesty that never descended into brutal. His conversation showed a keen intellect but no need to hammer that point home, and he listened with interest to what she had to say, but was too tactful to mention the holes in her supposed mundane life or her general knowledge.

And when it came to ancient mythologies, they met on equal terms.

"Of course, the birth of Pegasus is a poetic elaboration of the story," Lydia said, in a discussion of the Perseus myth. "There is no way that the blood of a gorgon could give birth to a winged horse. That part is pure fiction."

"Unlike the other parts?" Jason asked with a gentle smile.

She hesitated for a second, but then bit back, "You don't know what kind of creatures lived in Ancient Greece."

The grin that brought her was invigorating. Sure, she still had to guard her words, but at such a low level that it was hardly an effort at all. Even if she could never tell him the whole truth, at least she could talk to him. And he was a HR manager – the safest, most mundane job imaginable. She wouldn't ever have to be afraid.

On the third date she went home with him, fully intending to let this go as far as he would take her. Until he kissed her on a certain spot on the neck, under the ear, and she burst into tears.

This wasn't right. Those weren't the lips that were supposed to touch her skin, or the hands that should go around her waist. Knowing that her reaction was stupid and pointless, that she wasn't cheating, that she couldn't _be_ cheating, was no help at all. The sobs kept coming, and she pushed him off, the poor, bewildered man who couldn't think what he'd done wrong.

Once she had recovered enough to speak, she called a taxi, still not offering Jason any sort of explanation. The necessity to find the portal held off her tears for a while, until she was safely home and could fall apart, lying on her own bed.

All the healing she had done, the way that she had built herself back up, in the end it had proven nothing more than an iratze drawn over a demon wound, skin knitting together but the poison left underneath.

Perhaps letting the poison flow was necessary, but she hated it, hated Jason and Ekwueme and all the other men for drawing it out, Jessamine for making the suggestion in the first place, and herself for being so damned weak.

In the morning, face still puffy and red, she sent Jason a message, figuring she owed him that much: "I lost someone. I can't do this. Sorry."

He sent back some kind and sympathetic words, then later in the day a few more. By the time the third message came, she blocked him. Perhaps it was unfair, but it was the only thing she could do.


	4. Chapter 4

"I can't do it," Lydia confessed to Jessamine, next time she saw her. The air was starting to get chilly and the roses were out of bloom, but they still met in the rose garden. "Not even with mundanes. It's a mess, the whole thing. _I'm_ a mess. And I didn't use to be."

Jessamine fluttered down to sit beside her. "There's ichor on your dress."

"Yeah." Lydia rubbed at the drying stain with her sleeve, not that it made any difference. "I helped Pamela kill a nest of imps. That felt good. Maybe that's what I need to do, throw myself back into the work, forget about romance, just keep killing things until I get killed myself."

"And what am I supposed to do?" Jessamine asked. "Watch you throw your life away, until you show up on this side of the veil? No, thank you."

"That doesn't make any sense," Lydia said. "Why would I haunt London, of all places? It's not like I live here."

"Do you honestly believe you'll never be happy again?"

"I think... I think I don't even want to. Being happy is just setting myself up for the fall."

"Lydia," Jessamine said, her jaw setting in a way that gave authority to the words, despite the flowing locks and chemise. "I swear to God I will summon every last bit of poltergeist power that I possess and drag you into happiness kicking and screaming, if I have to. This has gone much too far for me to give up now. I will not have you turn into some heartless automaton."

"Not everyone needs a man," Lydia pointed out.

"Fine. No man then. Perhaps a holiday. Go to Paris, Vienna, Rome, somewhere beautiful and cultured where there's plenty to do and think of, involving no men, and no demon hunts. See the sights, buy some dresses, allow yourself to relax."

"You put far too much trust in the ability of dresses to make a difference."

Jessamine tugged at Lydia's braid. "What's it they say these days? Don't knock it until you've tried it? Well, darling, once you have tried it, you're welcome to come back and knock it."

There didn't seem to be much else to do.

Lydia felt rather sheepish when she'd returned to Idris and was asking Angelica for some time off to go to Rome. Particularly since she had to admit that, no, there hadn't been any call for help from the Institute of Rome, or indeed any kind of unrest in Italy at all, that this was merely a trip for recreational purposes.

Angelica did seem surprised, but she allowed it.

In Rome there were always plenty of tourists, regardless of season, but Lydia managed to find a somewhat affordable hotel room on short notice, and she took her first aimless steps out into the city.

She didn't speak Italian, short of what she could piece together from Spanish and French, but there were enough signs and brochures in English that this didn't prove much of a problem. The palazzos and piazzas and basilicas were crammed so close together that she barely knew where to start, so she headed for the Colosseum and stopped at everything on the way that seemed interesting, which was most things.

You couldn't get bored in Rome; there was far too much to see and do. Even Shadowhunter business faded away to the back of her mind. On the second night, she spotted a vampire by the Fontana di Trevi, but since he didn't seem to be breaking the Accords she ignored him. She wanted to get a view of the Quirinal Palace before bedtime, and preferably Sant'Andrea as well.

What you could get, even in Rome, was uncomfortably aware of couples. Couples with children, without children – even the busloads of tourists often turned out to divide into couples upon a closer look.

And perhaps she was imagining the surprise in the voices of servers and ticket takers as they asked, "Sola?" and she had to confirm that yes, just her alone. Either way, it left her with a restless feeling.

On the fourth day, she saw a red and gold striped cardigan in a shop window, with gold lace around the edges. It wasn't really her sort of thing, but she stopped and looked anyway, before going inside to try it on.

Italian sizes were different, but once she found the right one, the cardigan fit really well, and the colours brought out the luster in her hair.

"Così bellissima," said a male customer appreciatively as she was watching her reflection in the nearest mirror.

"Thank you," Lydia said, eyes still fixed on the mirror image. Yes, this was the kind of clothing that might even satisfy Jessamine's exacting tastes. Not with jeans, of course.

"Scusi," she said, turning to the shop clerk. "Do you have a skirt that would look good with this?"

She left the store with the cardigan, a red skirt, a coat, and rather less money than before.

Imagining Jessamine as an advisor did make the shopping more fun. After a few clothes shops, Lydia tried the same method for historical sites. What would the impertinent ghost make of the monuments, the churches, the remarkable attention mundanes had to detail while at the same time wilfully staying blind to some aspects of their reality?

It was an enjoyable endeavour, and definitely made her feel less alone, but in the end it also gave the trip a tinge of melancholy. She was much too aware that there wasn't any way to move a ghost from one place to another, that Jessamine had been given too little time in life to experience all the world's great sites, and now had the time but never again the opportunity.

Two days before the planned end of Lydia's stay, Angelica called her up.

"Sorry to interrupt your vacation," she said. "That Highsmith woman's asking for you again. Apparently her second in command is leaving, on a moment's notice. She's in an uproar. Don't even ask."

"Ekwueme quit?" Lydia asked, instantly alert. "Why?" Not that there weren't a million possible reasons.

"Don't know, don't care," Angelica said. "Are you taking it, or should I ask someone else?"

"I'll take it," said Lydia. "Set a portal up in an hour."

* * *

Lydia didn't even bother to unpack her luggage, just moved it from one portal to another and brought it all with her to London.

Ekwueme was waiting for her on the other side, all packed up and ready to go as well.

"I heard you were coming," he said. "Thought I could make use of the same portal."

"Listen, Ekwueme," she said, "whatever's going on, I'm sure we can sort it out."

He grinned. "I got approval and funding for the Lagos Institute. They're waiting for me to come start it up."

That wasn't what she had expected. "Now?"

"Now."

"But you must have known about that for... weeks, at least. Months."

"The final decision came through last month," he admitted. "I would have told you, but we never got a chance to talk last time you were here."

"So why hasn't Evelyn..."

The grin turned into an actual chuckle. "She refused to believe I was actually leaving, until this morning when I packed my bags. So my assignment here is up, but she hasn't found any replacement. That'll be a tight knot for her to untangle and it serves her right, too. Sorry to drop you in the middle of it."

Lydia's thoughts were racing. Of course, there would be plenty of Shadowhunters in the London Institute who'd be looking for a promotion. There might even be some people in Idris or elsewhere who'd jump at the chance to get a prestigious position at one of the world's oldest and most renowned Institutes. As much trouble as Ekwueme's absence would cause in the short run, they'd have the whole thing handled soon enough.

Yet what she said was, "Do you think I could apply?"

His eyebrows shot up. "Do you want to?"

"I'd get to stay here," she said, and then, as her thoughts caught up with her mouth, "No, that's ridiculous. Evelyn hates me. She'd never go for that. Forget it."

"You've put in a lot of work here," he said slowly. "More than you were required to. Evelyn knows that. And you've got a good standing in Idris, would probably be getting your own Institute sooner or later. She'd be a fool not to realize that you're more than qualified. If you want to apply, you definitely should."

"And would you be okay with that?" she asked. "After everything that happened? If I took your job?"

"It's not my job anymore." His smile was gentler now. "And I know how fond you are of our... rose garden. If it can give you peace of mind, who am I to say no?" He reached out a hand. "Good luck."

"You too," she said, shaking it. "If there's anything I can do for the Lagos Institute, any strings I can pull..."

"I'll call you," he said. "Believe me, I'll call."

With that, he hoisted up his bags, gave her a quick peck on the cheek, and stepped through the portal.

She turned around, ready to face the people down the hall. Though she wasn't sure what on earth she'd say to them.

* * *

A couple of hours later, Lydia was hanging her clothes up in the wardrobe of a guest room that very soon, as it seemed, would no longer be one. Perhaps it was desperation that had made Evelyn Highsmith so ready to agree to Lydia's application. Angelica had been amenable to the idea too, once she'd been assured that of course Lydia would return and sort things out in Idris before she committed to London full time.

The whole thing still had to be run through the Clave, and the position might be contested... but she had been given a room, and a task list long enough that she suspected that there were items on it that had never been on Ekwueme's.

Her spinning head and the butterflies in her stomach served to remind her that she had just overthrown her entire life without any plan for what lay ahead. And yet, the dizziness left no room for regret. Her only fear was that someone would knock on the door and say that it had all been a mistake, that she couldn't have this after all.

She washed off, then put on the new clothes and re-braided her hair, preparing to go into the rose garden, but before she could put on her coat, Jessamine materialized on the bed, sitting cross-legged and giving her an appraising once-over.

"That's a good look for you."

"Thank you," Lydia said. "I'd hoped you'd like it."

"Ekwueme left."

"I know. I'm his replacement."

Jessamine blinked and put her feet down on the floor. "Pardon?"

"I'm taking over as Assistant Head of the Institute. I hope. It's not official yet."

"Working here? With Evelyn?"

"She wasn't the main draw, I must admit."

"Then what is?"

Lydia smiled around the heart in her mouth, and sat down next to Jessamine on the bed. "You are."

"Me?" Jessamine's eyes were wide, uncomprehending, but there wasn't the slightest hint of rejection.

"Yeah. Rome was great, but it would have been better if you could have been there with me. Because the truth is, there's one place I feel perfectly safe, and that's right here, with you."

"You want to stay for... But I haven't... no-one has ever... not since..." Jessamine couldn't cry, but it was clear from her lost expression that if she could, she would have.

Hugging a ghost took some creative effort, but Lydia wrapped her arms as best she could around the semi-substantial figure, a tingling sensation filling up every inch of skin where they touched.

Jessamine relaxed into the embrace, gliding partway into the arms themselves, and sighed. "You should have some friends that are still alive."

"Baby steps," Lydia said. "Anyway, you're the best friend I could wish for, Jessamine Lovelace."

"As are you to me." Jessamine gave her a flutter of a kiss on the temple. "Are you truly staying?"

"I am. Knock on wood."

"For me?"

"Yup."

"Can I choose your dresses?"

"Um." Lydia frowned. "To a point."

Jessamine halted, and the mischief that had appeared in her eyes at the thought of dresses was taken over by something more pensive. She stepped out on the floor and walked up to a corner of the room that was still bare of furniture. With some hesitation, she turned and asked Lydia, "Do you think you could help me with something?"

* * *

Getting the doll house and all its furniture down from the attic required the assistance of Sharon, who probably wasn't getting the best impression of the Institute's new resident. Lydia didn't care. She made sure that every single miniature piece was accounted for and carried into her room, and then she proceeded to dust them all off and arrange them properly.

When all the items were in place, she took the adult dolls and sat them down in the parlour. Little baby Jessie she first put in the nursing room cradle, but then she changed her mind, and instead let the tiny doll sit on a divan next to her parents, with a good view of the room outside.

"There you go," she said softly. "Will that do?"

The real Jessamine leaned forward and corrected the placement of a few things, before stepping back. She reached out, letting her fingertips brush against the the golden lace on Lydia's sleeve on their way down to the hand. Ghostly fingers interlaced with flesh and blood, and a blissful smile spread over her face.

"It's perfect."


End file.
